The files on his desk remained incomplete, and their terrible implications were never to be shared. The truth about Rebecca Kirkland, about Thomas McGregor’s innocence, about the killer who’d stood in his living room and calmly explained his work – all of it silenced.
The Embalmer drove through the dark streets, his mind already moving to the next project, the next carefullyorchestrated death that would appear to be anything but murder. Hart had been an unfortunate necessity, a loose end that needed tying off.
The work would continue.
It always did.
20
PRESENT DAY
The mortuary at Dunfermline was a modern facility attached to the Queen Margaret Hospital, all clean lines and fluorescent lighting designed to make death seem clinical rather than tragic. Brodie had been here twice before on other cases, and the smell – antiseptic with an underlying sweetness that no amount of cleaning could quite eliminate – was depressingly familiar.
He and Lucy Warren pushed through the main entrance and into the post-mortem suite, where Sherlock’s office was.
‘First time in this mortuary?’ Brodie asked Lucy, noticing her taking in the surroundings with careful attention.
‘Third, actually. A different pathologist was here when you were recovering after being stabbed. I spent two very long days going through post-mortem records.’ Lucy’s expression was neutral, professional. ‘I learned more about decomposition rates than I ever wanted to know.’
Before Brodie could respond, a door opened and Dr Ronald Holmes appeared, wearing surgical scrubs under a white coat and that characteristic expression of alert intelligence that had earned him his nickname. He was lean and fit-looking, with darkhair and sharp features that gave him a professorial air. His eyes were his most striking feature – pale blue and intensely focused, the kind of eyes that seemed to catalogue everything they saw.
‘DCI Brodie,’ Holmes said, extending his hand. ‘Good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I understand we have developments in the Emma Richardson case?’
‘Actually, we’re here about a different matter.’ Brodie shook Holmes’s hand, noting the firm grip. ‘This is DI Lucy Warren…’
‘I know. We’ve met before.’ Sherlock beamed a smile at her. ‘How have you been, Lucy?’
Lucy smiled. ‘Fine thanks. You?’
‘I muddle on.’ He turned to Brodie. ‘Let’s get a coffee. I have a kettle and a jar of instant. And milk in the fridge, but not where the dead rest.’ He laughed at his own joke.
Lucy smiled at him and her eyes sparkled.
‘Sounds good, Ronnie,’ she said, not using the doctor’s nickname.
‘Lead the way, Sherlock,’ Brodie said, and they walked through to his office, where the kettle was filled, ready for duty. He flicked the switch and it turned on. Sherlock pottered around with three mugs and the jar of instant.
‘We could always head out to the pub, if coffee doesn’t grab your fancy,’ he said.
Lucy smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
‘When we’re not on duty, of course,’ Brodie said to her.
Sherlock made a face behind Brodie’s back and she laughed. ‘That’s what I meant, sir,’ Lucy said.
Brodie watched the interaction with interest. Holmes was usually professional but reserved, yet he seemed genuinely animated talking with Lucy. At this point, he realised that they must have got together when she worked through here threeyears ago, and it was obvious that they liked each other. More than liked each other.
‘Dr Holmes,’ Brodie began, ‘we’re investigating some historical connections to The Embalmer case. One name that keeps coming up is Dr Mark Finlay, biochemist at Ninewells. He died about four years ago. And his niece is Emma Richardson, our victim.’
‘Mark’s niece. Holy crap. That’s awful.’ Holmes’s expression sobered immediately. ‘Yes, I remember Mark. Terrible thing, his death. He was a friend, actually.’
‘You knew him personally?’
‘We both worked at Ninewells – different departments, but the medical staff aren’t that large. We’d often end up in the same pub on Friday nights, unwinding after the week. Mark was brilliant, absolutely brilliant with biochemistry, but…’ Holmes paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. ‘He had some unusual interests outside of work.’
‘What kind of interests?’ Lucy asked.
Holmes gestured towards the coffee mugs. ‘Milk, anyone?’
